Metal Fingers
by Cupe
Summary: Saphir knows he's being used, but so long as he's able to stay close to Jade, it doesn't matter. One-sided Saphir/Jade, set in their teenage years during the formicry experiments. Light warnings for abuse.


**_(Author's Note: Written to "Metal Fingers" by Electric President. Enjoy :3 )  
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**Metal Fingers**_  
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_There are no saviours in technology.  
>Just quick fixes, and holes,<br>And holes within you,  
>And a place to hang my head and convince myself<br>There is no difference._

Saphir knows he's being used. Knows, and relishes it.

It's unhealthy, he's well aware, but so long as Jade is using him, his skills, he is necessary, and will be able to stay close to the little genius.

Jade is impatient, and his temper barely exists on a good day. On a bad day, he snarls, and lashes out in fury. Each bruise blossoms like the roses Saphir leaves in the glass vase on the window sill. It's been repaired three time already this week. Each time he performs the now simple arte to create a perfect clone of the vase. Saphir steadfastly tells himself that it's a good thing. It's necessary. It means he is becoming better at formicry, and can be of more use to Jade in the future.

When Jade catches him crying, Saphir insists it's for the deep gash on his hand caused by the glass shards, not for the way the other boy brushed him off that morning, told him he was worthless, and that he hated him.

Saphir pretends he doesn't hear the insults any more. He may as well have been deaf, and dumb, too, for all Jade cares. So long as Saphir is still able to build and rebuild the fon machines that amplify the power of formicry Jade ignores him. Jade shows Saphir as much care and concern as he does for the machines themselves, perhaps even less.

They're all replaceable.

Saphir stops eating, Jade's demanding deadlines trumping his body's feeble protests. He's read about monks who fast for weeks at a time to get themselves closer to their god. He tells himself that this is no different. He'll prove himself to Jade, and even cold, dead-eyed Jade will become the benevolent angel of god that the books spoke of.

Or just damn him to eternal hell. Saphir isn't sure which is worse, truly. The perverse fantasy, and the sickening reality blurred into one and the same.

Saphir's finding it harder and harder to tell the two apart, building a hard exterior of smirks and laughs, saving his weakness for the four walls of his bedroom. The next morning Jade will glare and curse at him, each look more hateful than the last, somehow crushing the fragile layers until it's all Saphir can do not to cry in front of him because he just can't stand the mocking any more-

The vase lies broken on the floor again, the corpses of five candy pink and white roses are strewn, tattered between wicked-sharp knives of glass. Water spreads across the linoleum.

Jade's eyes are narrowed to slits behind his glasses.

Blood drops fall, flecking the water with small ringlets of colour. Saphir swallows a whimper, pressing his sleeve to his nose, not caring for the white fabric as it becomes stained. He watches, helpless, as Jade strides out, leaving the mess to Saphir.

He kneels and holds out his hands, one pale, the other streaked with his own rapidly-drying blood, and begins the simple process. Fonons flow through him and burst forth from his finger tips in a familiar rush. The once warm feeling is gone, replaced with a clammy coolness that Saphir can only describe as "wrong". A phantom wind blows, ruffling his hair with iron-cold fingers.

Alone, Saphir shivers and stares at the perfect replica that sits on an untouched portion of the floor. The glass shines under the halogen lamps, innocent and unmarked, and suddenly he's suffocating.

Saphir flees the room, vaguely hearing the replica-of-a-replica-of-a-replica vase shatter behind him. The door bangs, and Saphir doesn't care. The outside air is frigid, as always, and the snowfall wets his thin labcoat. To Saphir it is warmer out here than in the laboratory, and for a moment he just breathes. The air sears his lungs like fire, but it feels good. Feels alive, and a quiet, choking laugh leaves him, ending in a hiss as he collapses in the snow.

* * *

><p>He wakes in the medical bay, and silently slips out before the doctors even realise he has woken up. He returns to his room and showers before dressing and going to the laboratory. The calender tells him it is Tuesday, and that somewhere he has misplaced Monday, Sunday, and most of Saturday.<p>

Jade enters without a word, all flapping labcoat and stray strands of honey-blond hair. He notices Saphir, and pauses to regard him for a second before turning to begin sketching out his plans for the day.

"You're not dead." It's not a question, and Jade almost sounds disappointed.

"No." Saphir answered slowly, his own voice sounding foreign and harsh to his ears, as if he hasn't spoken for days. He hasn't for months. Jade thrusts a wad of paper at him, the sheets slicing into Saphir's thumb as he does so,

"It broke. Fix it." Jade hisses and strides off.

"Yes...Right away. Jade." Saphir watches him go, and for a moment, he swears he sees a frail boy run after him, his own lips mimicking the familiar words that fall from the ghost's mouth.

_"Jade. Jade, wait for me! ...I don't want to be left alone."_

_**(Post Script: In my headcanon, Saphir and Dist are separate personas, though I'll go into this more when I write more Saphir-centric fics. Feedback is always appreciated, as I worry about my portrayal of Jade. Do I make him enough of a cold arsehole? )**  
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